


From Kinloch We Fled

by TheThirdAmell



Series: Accursed Ones [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Prequel, Public Humiliation, Rape Aftermath, Solitary Confinement, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Love (Resolved in Main Fic), Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27765901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdAmell/pseuds/TheThirdAmell
Summary: The seven times Anders escaped the Circle, and the one time he asked Amell to come with him. For Amell, that day was the most important day of his life. For Anders, it was Tuesday.
Relationships: Amell/Anders (Dragon Age), Male Amell/Anders (Dragon Age)
Series: Accursed Ones [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/264574
Comments: 18
Kudos: 72





	From Kinloch We Fled

**The First - 9:18 Dragon**

Fausten was a necromancer.

It was not a good thing to be. 

He watched the word jump from mouth to mouth while the mages and templars argued, the same way his family had used the word mage before sending him away. Fausten had already been sent to the Circle. He couldn’t imagine being sent somewhere worse, but he was afraid it might happen. All because of his magic. 

Death magic. Blood magic. Spirit magic. Necromancy was all of them. Or maybe none of them. It was hard to follow along. The spider he’d reaminated crawled across his shoulder, dripping blood and ichor, but Fausten didn’t mind. It was alive, or near enough. Fausten had kept it alive, after a templar had killed it, and that had gotten him in trouble. 

It had gotten him in so much trouble some small part of his small self thought the templars might kill him. He wondered about death, about his innate ability to defy it, about whether or not he could bring himself back the way he'd brought back the spider. He wondered about why he had to wonder about it when it didn't feel like he'd done anything wrong. 

Fausten slipped out of the circle of adults, but he couldn’t leave. The door was guarded by a templar in full plate, so he went to the window instead. Kinloch Hold was in the middle of a lake, somewhere in Ferelden, which was very far from Kirkwall, but maybe not so far Fausten couldn’t go home someday. Far below, a figure was swimming away from the tower. Fausten imagined swimming with them, all the way to the shore, while the adults kept arguing.

“... Cannot possibly control…”

“... Too young for Tranquility…”

“... No one is too young…”

“... innocent child…”

Another templar burst into the room. “Knight-Commander! Greagoir, Ser!” The templar gave a hasty salute, “An apprentice has escaped!”

“Escaped!?" The Knight-Commander repeated, "Who!? How!?” 

“The Anders boy, Ser! He swam across the lake.”

“Well swim after him, damn you!”

“Ser - I - … yes Ser!” The templar bolted back out of the room.

The Knight-Commander turned to Fausten, his massive armor clacking like a great silver dragon. Beneath his visor, all was blackened shadow. It was terrifying, but Fausten refused to let him see his fear. He balled his hands into fists, and the spider on his shoulder started hissing.

“I have to inform my men," The Knight-Commander said. "Irving - whatever happens with this boy is on you.”

The templars left. The mages stayed. The oldest of them all knelt in front of him. He looked like a raisin with kind eyes. “What am I going to do with you, child?” The old man sighed. 

"I didn't do anything," Fausten insisted. The magic had just come to him - as readily as breathing. He couldn't help it. It was who he was - written in his blood from now till his dying breath. "I fixed him!" 

The spider crawled onto the old man's outstretched hand as if to prove it. The First Enchanter did something that drained the life from it all over again, and Fausten tried not to cry. The spider didn't deserve to die anymore than he did, but no one seemed to care about either of them. 

"You are no healer, child," The First Enchanter burnt the corpse, and shook the ashes off his hand. "You must understand, your magic is very special... and very dangerous. Very few can be trusted with it without falling to temptation. The Knight-Commander is not a bad man, but he is a cautious one... That Anders boy may have just saved your life.”

**The Second - 9:21 Dragon**

Fausten was not his name.

Fausten was his grandfather’s name, and his grandfather had sent him to the Circle. His grandfather had wanted him to marry a girl. A nice girl, a pretty girl, but a girl. Not-Fausten had wanted to marry a boy, so he'd said no, and he'd said it with magic, but in the end it didn't matter. Mages couldn’t marry anyone.

If the past four years had taught Not-Fausten anything, it was that he was never going home. He was a mage, and mages didn't have homes. Mages had Circles, and Circles had mages, and unmages.

The Tranquil. The walking dead. The only necromancy the Circle allowed. The fate that had almost been his until Anders had inadvertently saved him. The fate that still might be so long as he was in the Circle, and he would always be in the Circle. He was never going to escape. He was going to be a prisoner for the rest of his life.

But Anders wasn’t.

Anders was a Harrowed Mage. One of the youngest in the history of Kinloch Hold. Not-Fausten idolized him. His bravery. His determination. His defiance of death, in his own way, with his own magic, that saved life instead of prolonging death. 

Anders was sixteen - and his Harrowing had been a reward for his latest escape, according to the Knight-Commander. Not-Fausten didn’t always believe everything the Knight-Commander said, but he always heard it. He was the First Enchanter’s apprentice, and while the two men argued, he pretended not to listen.

“This is the last straw, Irving,” The Knight-Commander was saying. “How are the templars to keep the mages in line if you insist on rewarding them when they escape!?” 

“The Harrowing is no reward, Greagoir,” The First Enchanter said patiently, “You know this. The boy nearly died.”

“They all nearly die!” The Knight-Commander's arm sliced through the air, like a sword poised to cut down all magic. “Now what am I to do when he tries again?”

“Anders is not-”

“Anders,” The Knight-Commander cut him off with a scoff, “You’re really going to indulge him further, calling him that?”

“It is his chosen name,” Irving said firmly.

“What about his given name? What about our records!?” 

“All names are given,” Irving frowned, “And not by you or I or even the Maker. Records can be changed.”

“Blast it, Irving-”

“I will not bend on this, Greagoir,” Irving straightened his spine as if to prove it. “His name is Anders.”

“Then the next time _Anders_ escapes, both of you will wish you had left me the option to make him Tranquil.” Greagoir stormed out.

Irving watched him go, and breathed a deep sigh. Not-Fausten stared very determinedly at the papers he was sorting.

“I am sorry you had to hear that, child,” Irving said.

Amell wasn’t.

**The Third - 9:23 Dragon**

Amell was a prodigy.

He mastered the summoning sciences at thirteen.

Then the Fade Rifter he unleashed killed his instructor, and everyone panicked.

Amell's connection to the Fade snapped with the templar’s silence. It felt like being flayed from the inside out, an agony on the inside of his skin that burned out from his heart and nearly stopped it. It stole the air from his lungs and left him with no way to scream, to cry, to explain what had happened. Amell fought for the Fade, for consciousness, for the echoes of wisps across the Veil he could bind to his own corpse for one final -

A second silence.

Amell woke up in shackles, with the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander arguing over him. His vision was spotty and he didn’t recognize the room. It was a cell lined in glyphs of neutralization, furnished with a cot and a chamberpot, and nothing else. 

“ - Killed his instructor, Irving!”

“I am sure there is another explanation, had you allowed him one. Look, he is awake,” The First Enchanter knelt beside him, and gathered up his shackled hands. His eyes were lined in so many circles they could have housed all the mages in Thedas. “Tell me what happened, child.”

Amell tried, reaching for words, but only managed vomit. He emptied his stomach over the edge of the cot, saliva dripping down his chin and onto the cobblestones. His lungs felt paper thin, and his breath came in staccato gasps that slowly turned to speech, “He-... stepped into-... the summoning circle. It-... was an accident.”

“A likely story,” The Knight-Commander scoffed.

“Because it’s true!” Amell insisted.

“Accidents happen, Greagoir-”

“A man lies dead! That is no accident, Irving, it is murder!” The Knight-Commander said.

It wasn't. It was an accident, but the Knight-Commander would condemn him to the Void for it. Or worse, condemn him to join the countless Tranquil that filled the tower for far lesser crimes. It wasn't fair. Amell didn't even know how to command a creature of the Fade stronger than a wisp. If he did, the Knight-Commander would be dead, and his instructor would still be alive. 

It didn’t matter what Amell said, but it shouldn't have been what he did, “I’m not the murderer between us!"

The Knight-Commander back-handed him. Silverite cut across his cheek, and the force of the blow knocked him off the cot. Amell went rolling through his lunch, and dry heaved again, bits of bile clinging to his lips. Everything hurt. Everything hurt so much but he hadn't done it. He hadn't even done it.

“Settle yourself, Greagoir, he is but a child,” The First Enchanter admonished. 

Amell lay on the cold floor, in the acrid stench of his own vomit, his instructor's death playing and replaying in his mind’s eye. He'd been a good man, but Amell was old enough to know good men didn't last long in the Circle. Amell recalled his excited praise, his eager pacing, one step too far, and then -

The Fade Rifter had unmade him. A construct of assembled consciousness, it understood only pieces, not the whole, so that was what it made of his instructor. Pieces. Organs. Bones. Skin. Blood. All neatly pulled apart and suspended mid-air for the construct to inspect, while Amell watched. 

Amell didn't have that power, but some part of him wanted it. An accident. Amell pushed the thought away. It was an accident. Amell's jaw ached, and his lungs burned, and his heart was stuttering. The smite still hurt. It still hurt and Irving and Greagoir were still arguing and it was like he wasn’t even there. 

“Enough!” The Knight-Commander said eventually. “Solitary. One month. My men will investigate, and I swear, Irving, if even one witness faults the boy-”

“Yes, yes,” Irving waved a weary hand of allowance. Like it didn’t matter. Like it was just another argument about what tea went best with what biscuit. “I understand.”

The men left his cell, and the Knight-Commander locked it behind them. The First Enchanter stayed, his grey head visible through a small barred window in the door, watching him with tired eyes.

Amell was too weak to sit up, every muscle trembling. "What do you mean you understand?"

"Oh, child," The First Enchanter sighed. 

"What do you understand!?" Amell tried to scream, but it came out as a whisper.

"... you understand it too, dear boy." The First Enchanter left.

"No, it was an accident! It was an accident!" Amell called after him, voice breaking. "First Enchanter! Irving! Father!" 

… it was quiet. 

Amell curled up in the corner of his cell, gagging at the vomit caked into his robes. He'd never been in the dungeons before. He knew they existed, but only in an abstract sense, like mountains and forests, something he could picture but never see.

… it was so quiet.

The cell was cold. The only light came from the torches in the hall. A dull orange glow flickered through the small window in the door, illuminating the ceiling but not the floors. Amell felt in the dark for his chamberpot. The backsplash of his piss hit his boots and soaked his socks. A sob curdled in his throat, and from somewhere beyond the door a templar’s tinny chuckle answered him.

… no crying. 

… no magic.

… no father. 

Amell didn't have a father. 

Amell didn't have anyone.

The month was lonely.

Amell wondered if the Tranquil felt lonely. 

When the month was up, they let him out like nothing happened. Like solitary was nothing, and tranquility was nothing, and death was nothing. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was all nothing. Maybe Amell was nothing. 

Amell sat on the edge of his cot in the apprentice quarters. Someone had started keeping their books on his bed, and Amell didn't have it in him to move them. They'd thought he wasn't coming back. Maybe he hadn't. He couldn't feel anything - not the bite of the mattress frame on his thighs, not the itch of his robes, not the sweat in his socks. Not Jowan, flinging his arms around his neck and sobbing into his shoulder. 

"Thank the Maker you're back!" Jowan wept. Jowan. His best friend. His almost-brother. Someone to love him when no one else would. "I thought you were gone! I missed you so much. Where did you go? Did you escape?"

Amell shook his head.

"Then where were you?" Jowan asked.

"Solitary," Amell said. His throat felt rough and scratchy after a month of disuse, and it hurt to talk.

"... Was it bad?"

Amell nodded. 

"... why did they do it?"

"No reason." 

"They just-... they locked you up for no reason? I guess that's a stupid question. We're already locked up for no reason. I'm sorry. Are you-... are you okay? You look… bad." 

Amell wasn't sure which direction meant no, so he shook his head in each of them. 

"I bet I know what will cheer you up!" Jowan said eagerly, bouncing a bit. "You know that guy you like? Andre?"

"Anders?"

"He escaped! When the demon-" "-Fade construct-" "-ate your teacher-" "-disassembled him-" "- it distracted all the templars and he and a few other mages escaped!" 

"... They did?"

"Yeah. They still haven't found all of them, and it's been a whole month. Maybe they got away for good this time. That's good, right? I mean, it's not good for you, but it was good for other people, so maybe that makes it not so bad?"

"... maybe." It helped a little. Not enough.

"It was bad for me too, you know," Jowan sniffled, "I thought I was alone. I thought you left me." 

Something cracked. Like a bone in his heart. Amell wrapped his arms around Jowan, and buried his face in his oily hair. He smelled like garlic and old socks, but it was the best hug he'd ever had. "I won't ever. I don't care what it takes, I won't ever let that happen to you. I promise."

**The Fourth - 9:25 Dragon**

Amell was a good friend.

"... Fuck."

Jowan needed one.

"How…?" Amell stared up at the statue of Magus Gorvish. Ancient. Enchanted. Expensive. Ruined.

"I just-..." Jowan's eyes darted nervously around the library, abandoned this late at night, "I was trying to perform the summoning sciences…" 

"Without an instructor?" Amell ran a hand through his hair, pacing in front of the statue, "Jowan it's-"

"I know it's forbidden, but no one will teach me!" 

A half dozen books were scattered across the table, and they weren't even the right books. Amell tossed one towards him. "Patterns Within Form isn't even used for the summoning sciences, Jowan-"

Jowan flung it at one of the shelves, knocking a handful of books onto the floor. "Well how would I know!? I don't know anything! I can't remember any of this! I’m never going to pass my Harrowing. I fail any class I can't copy off you! I can't do this - any of this - Amell I'm so scared I won't - "

The sound of heavy footfalls echoed through the halls, and Amell shushed him in time for a templar patrol to enter the library, and find them before the scattered tomes and ruined relic.

The First-Enchanter did not like to be woken up in the middle of the night.

The Knight-Commander less so.

“Well?” The Knight-Commander demanded. He’d forgotten his helmet, his bedraggled hair and bloodshot eyes speaking to the night’s sleep they’d interrupted. He looked at Jowan, and not Amell.

Everyone knew Jowan struggled. He struggled with his magic. He struggled with his memory. He struggled with his everything. Jowan hadn’t been lying. The enchanters had given up on Jowan. The apprentices knew better than to befriend him. The templars were just waiting for an excuse, and Jowan had given them one.

Amell thought of him in solitary. He thought of him Tranquil. He thought of him dead - and knew there was no magic that would save him.

“I broke it,” Amell stepped in front of him. 

“... You broke it?” The First-Enchanter repeated the words like he was translating them, doubt etched into every wrinkle.

“I was trying to perform the summoning sciences,” Amell explained. 

“Really?” The Knight-Commander scoffed without taking his eyes off Jowan “The First Enchanter’s Apprentice, one of our most talented, failed in his attempt to perform a ritual he already perfected two years ago?”

“Do not lie, child,” The First Enchanter cautioned. “You know the statue of Magus Gorvish is an ancient relic from the Black Age. The consequences of such an act, even accidentally done, will be quite severe.”

“I’m not lying,” Amell lied, struggling to come up with a better one, “I… heard rumors of a fourth sequence in the sciences and wanted to try it. I lost control of the magic and the statue exploded. I woke Jowan up after I broke it. I asked him to help me cover it up but he refused.”

“... _If_ that is true,” The First Enchanter said, in a way that made it painfully clear he knew it was not, “Then it was very good of him to refuse. We will have to commission Orzammar to repair the damage. The Lucrosians will not be pleased.”

“The Lucrosians are the least of your concern,” With a visible amount of effort, the Knight-Commander tore his gaze off Jowan to fix it on Amell, “An apprentice performing unsanctioned magic without the supervision of enchanters or templars and destroying a priceless artifact in the process - and then trying to hide the evidence? Have you any idea the consequences of your actions?”

“It was an accident,” Amell said, and at least that much was true, even if the next wasn't. “I’m sorry.” 

The Knight-Commander saw through it, “Not yet, you’re not, but you will be.” The Knight-Commander waved one of his templars forward, “Ser Bran, twenty lashes.” 

… _Fuck._

“What!?” Jowan finally broke, jumping in front of him, “He told you it was an accident! Just let us go back to bed!”

“Is that true, apprentice?” The Knight-Commander frowned, “Did you accidentally leave your quarters in the middle of the night? Did you accidentally gather up all of these tomes? Did you forget to inform the templars posted in the halls of your intentions? Did you forget to get permission from an enchanter to attempt the spell?”

Jowan looked like he wanted to cry. His jaw trembled, and Amell could see the water welling in his eyes like overfull buckets. Amell squeezed his hand; Jowan’s palms were so sweaty he must have decided to cry from them instead. Some small part of Amell smiled for it. Jowan was an idiot, but it had nothing to do with his magic or his memory. He was an idiot if he thought Amell was going to let anything happen to him.

“... No, Knight-Commander.” Amell said.

“Let us try that again, then, shall we? Was this an accident?”

“No, Knight-Commander.”

“Twenty lashes, Bran.”

Bran was a templar. He wore a bucket helm, with iron armor emblazoned with a silver sword of mercy on his breastplate, ironically neither silver nor merciful. He unhooked a whip from his belt, a wicked looking thing, and another templar handed him a copy of the Chantry of Light from theirs. Bran stuffed it under his free arm, the righteous text guiding him. “Turn around, apprentice, tunic off," He said.

“You can’t do this!” Jowan protested, “This isn’t fair!” 

Amell pushed him towards the door. “Go back to bed, Jowan.”

“... I think the boy should stay,” The First Enchanter said. “We could all use a good reminder not to flout the rules of the Circle, wouldn’t you say, Knight-Commander?” 

“Indeed,” The Knight-Commander scowled at Jowan, “You will stay and watch, and should you recall the events of tonight differently than Fausten, now would be the time to tell us.”

“I wasn’t-” Jowan started.

“I broke it,” Amell wrenched off his night frock, and threw it into Jowan’s face. “Shut up, Jowan.”

Amell had never been lashed before. Amell had never seen anyone lashed before. He knew it happened, in the abstract way he knew sex happened. He knew how it worked. He knew how it was supposed to feel, but it didn’t help him prepare for it.

The whip cracked across his shoulder and Amell jerked, smashing his head on the bookshelf and dizzying himself. Blood ran into his eyes, as warm as the lash was cold, and the whip cracked again across his lower back. Amell scrabbled against the shelf like he could just climb into the books to escape it all. His fingers dug into the wood, but it didn’t hurt nearly enough to distract him. The whip cut, again and again, and he clenched his jaw to keep from screaming. Spit escaped between his teeth with each hissing breath. His nerves were on fire, and somewhere behind him, Jowan was crying.

Amell lost count. He focused on his nails, dug so deep into the wood they bent. He felt one split from his finger at the same time skin split on his back. He bit his cheek, blood frothing with spit in his mouth and spraying on the books with every pained gasp. He heard Bran's harsh grunts behind him, growing harsher with every stroke. He couldn't take it, tears spilling down his face and mixing salt with the taste of copper in his mouth.

A grunt, the snap of them connecting through the whip, a pained gasp. Grunt, snap, gasp. Grunt, snap, gasp. Grunt, snap, gasp.

"Twenty!" Jowan screamed, almost triumphantly, "Twenty, twenty, twenty!" Jowan’s arms locked around him protectively, chest pressing against his flayed back. Amell cried out, flailing to escape him, and Jowan let go or was dragged off.

“I trust you both will remember this the next time you consider breaking the rules of the Circle,” Someone said. “Take him to the infirmary.”

Amell would never forget it. Amell would never regret it. He didn’t register the trip to the infirmary. Someone set him down, and he collapsed face down on one of the cots while conversation carried on in the background. His world dimmed to the cold air wisping across his open back, the abrasive texture of cotton on his chest and face, the spasms of pain still wracking him even long after Bran had stopped. 

“Maker’s breath, what a mess,” Someone yawned, gathering up a fistful of his hair and peeling his face off the pillow, “You alive, kid?” An old man squinted down at him. Amell made sounds in place of words, and the enchanter let go of him. He flopped back onto the pillow. “Anders! Anders, you lazy shit, get in here and take care of this. I’m going to get us some breakfast and peaberry brew. It’s too early for this.”

Anders.

Anders was assigned to the infirmary - and Amell was in it. Flayed. Weak. Pathetic. Helpless. Amell locked his hands around his head, pressing his face into the pillow despite the agony the motion caused across his back. Why? Why did it have to be Anders? Why couldn’t it be Finn, or Wynne, or anyone else? Why did it have to be the only person in the Circle Amell cared about seeing him like this?

“Don’t you mean too late?” Anders’ voice called from the next room over.

“You keep being cheeky, and I’ll find someone to slap them!” The old man’s voice faded. "I'll be back in an hour."

“Promises, promises!” Anders called after him. Amell heard the high-pitched squeak of a chair being dragged across the cobblestone, followed by an even higher-pitched whistle. “Andraste’s bloody knickers... you’re a mess.” 

Amell didn’t say anything. Anders set a tentative hand to his shoulder, and Amell flinched. The hand retreated. “See, this is why I never play the naughty mage and the helpless recruit. Some people just don’t know when to stop. You forget to pick a safe word? … Nothing? Really? You know they’re gone, right? It’s just us in here. It’s safe. You can laugh.”

Amell shook his head on the pillow, and Anders sighed. “... First time?”

Amell nodded.

“I wish I could say the first time is always the worst, but it’s not," Amell heard him sit, and felt the weight of the cot shift as Anders rested his elbows on it. He smelled like elfroot and soap, and his voice was feather soft. "They try harder if they have to break scar tissue or they know you’re used to it. You look like you got lucky. They brought you straight here so I should be able to heal it before it scars, but you have to let me. My magic isn’t strong enough not to scar unless I touch you, but I’m not going to touch you again if you don’t want me to, alright? … Nod if I can touch you.” 

Amell nodded. Anders set his hands on his shoulders, and Amell didn't flinch so much as shiver. A warmth spread through his back, dulling the pain left by the templar’s lash and slowly mending the mix of bruised and rent flesh. Anders squeezed gently, "You're safe. You can sleep if you want. This is going to take a while." 

Amell didn't want to sleep. Amell didn't want to exist outside of this moment. It was almost worth it - Anders’ hands on his back, Anders’ magic soaking into his skin, Anders’ proud exhale at his own skill in healing. Amell felt like he could breathe again. Amell felt like he'd never breathed before in his life. His hands went slack, a sigh escaping him, and Anders chuckled. 

“Yeah, I know, I’ve got the touch, but that doesn’t mean I want to see you back here. Do you want to know my secret for avoiding this kind of thing? … No answer means yes… Don't get caught. It hasn’t worked yet, but I’ll let you know when it does. Speaking of, I was actually planning on not being here right now, and I was wondering if you could help with that. Do you think you could tell the Enchanter I’m in the backroom when he gets back? Favor for a favor? What do you say?” 

In that moment, Amell would have done anything for him. 

Anders escaped that night and took Amell’s heart with him.

**The Fifth - 9:26 Dragon**

Amell was in love with Anders.

Anders did not appear to be in love with Amell.

Amell didn’t mind. 

Amell had tried to talk to him, once, but he hadn’t managed more than a handful of words. He wasn’t of a mind to try again. It was enough that Anders existed, and that Amell could exist around him. That there was some good, some beauty, some perfection in the Circle. That he’d experienced it, however fleeting. 

Amell was enjoying his existence in Anders’ general vicinity when the library collapsed. 

A demonstration of primal magic gone wrong, Amell learned later. A stone fist went through a support pillar, and nearly brought the second story down on them. Amell didn’t think. He just reacted. A coil of telekinetic energy latched around the pillar, supporting it in place. It took everything in him to hold, even for a second, with the weight of the Circle bearing down on him. 

Other mages quickly joined in, repairing the damaged pillar and sealing the cracks with primal magic. Amell hit his knees, everything in him spent beyond measure, but someone grabbed him by his collar and dragged him back up to his feet.

“Explain yourself, apprentice!” A helmet screamed at him. 

“What?” Amell managed weakly. 

“No mage has that capacity for mana,” The helmet snarled, “I know you augmented your spell, maleficar.” 

A crowd gathered around them, mages and templars alike, but Amell was so exhausted he couldn’t process what was happening, let alone what the templar wanted from him. “What?” 

“I know you have a casting cut!” The helmet accused him, “Strip, maleficar, before you heal it!” 

“... what?” The crowd murmured uncomfortably, shuffling in place. A handful looked away. “I’m not a maleficar,” Amell rolled up a sleeve and held out an arm. 

The templar grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm this way and that like he was trying to pull it from its socket. “This proves nothing. You could have a cut anywhere,” The templar let go of him, “Strip.”

Amell blinked. He couldn’t. Not here. Not in the library. Not in front of Anders. Not in front of the entire Circle. No one was even trying to leave. They were all just watching, staring at him in a mixture of shock, suspicion, or pity. Amell swallowed, his throat too dry to talk. 

“Andraste’s knickerweasels! Why didn’t I think of that!?” Anders’ voice broke the silence, and was followed by an explosion as a stonefist took out the west wall. Anders quickly followed it, diving into the lake below. He must have survived the jump, despite it being a good thirty feet, because a handful of mages followed him. The templars sprang into action, bellowing orders and smiting any mage who came within a few feet of the broken wall.

“Get back, damn you!” One of the templars roared, “If any more of you so much as look at that lake, I’ll drown you in it!” 

“Lockdown! All of you! Back to your quarters this instant!” Screamed another.

It was the middle of the day, and one of the senior enchanters had been holding a class on primal magic when the stonefist had gone awry. There were still dozens of mages and templars gathered, even as some of them started filing out. Amell tried to leave, to vanish into the bookstacks, but the insistent templar grabbed him by his collar. Everyone who lingered saw when the templar wrenched his robe down his shoulders, ripping the laces and exposing his chest to cold air. 

Mercifully, his robes bunched at the sash at his waist. “I’m not a maleficar!” Amell threw his arms out in front of him, palms up. There were no scars. He wasn't a maleficar. If he was, this wouldn't be happening. If he was, he could make the man stop, “I only held the pillar for a heartbeat!”

Everyone who had been in the process of leaving stopped. They stopped and they just fucking watched. Wide-eyed, somehow shamefaced and shameless, gawking at him and the templar who threw him face down on a table. The man stopped being a helmet, and started being hands. Silverite gauntlets pressed into Amell's back, cutting between his shoulder blades and pinning him in place. The wood bit into his hips, cold and chafing on his chest. Amell banged his unscarred arms on the table, where everyone could see - everyone could see - “I’m not-I’m not a maleficar-I’m not-”

The templar’s free hand fisted in the robes bunched about his waist, and wrenched. Amell’s sash caught on his hips for a hopeful second, before it gave, and the robes dropped with his smalls. Amell fisted his hands in his hair, pressing his face into the wood and clenching his eyes shut so hard they hurt. Cold metal gauntlets moved across his skin, down his sides, his thighs -

This wasn't happening - if he didn’t look - if he just pretended - if he just -

“Let’s get naked!” Jowan shouted. A few people gasped. Despite himself, Amell turned his head on the table, to a face full of Jowan fighting free of the crowds and his robes all at once. “Woohoo!” Jowan climbed onto the table, his ass to the templar and his cock to the crowd.

Amell choked on the combination of a laugh and a sob. Another man pushed his way through the crowds, unlacing his robes with far less enthusiasm. Karl. Anders' friend. “I should be checked as well,” Karl said calmly, dropping his robes, “I aided in the repair of the pillar.” 

More mages came forward. Some with Jowan’s enthusiasm, others with Karl’s maturity. Surana grabbed the hand of another female mage, and dragged her to the front with her. “We helped too,” Surana said, staring the templar in the eye while she stripped. 

“Really, Surana?” The other mage sighed, but she dropped her robes.

And then all at once there were far too many naked people for anyone to care about anything other than the fact that there were far too many naked people.

“What in the blazes is going on here!?” The Knight-Commander’s voice cut through the chaos. The templar pinning Amell to the table let him go, and he sank to the floor with his robes. 

“One of the mages in the primal lesson destroyed a support pillar, Knight-Commander, and -”

“Why is everyone naked!?” The Knight-Commander demanded.

“Take it off!” Someone screamed at him.

“Yeah, get it, Greagoir!” Someone else added with an obscene gesture.

“Get back to your quarters this instant, or so help me-”

“You bet I’ll help you, Ser, yes, Ser!” One of the female mages cheered. A handful of people laughed.

“Out!” Greagoir screamed; veins popping so intensely it was a wonder they didn’t burst, “Out, all of you! Out! Out!“

Jowan climbed off the table and knelt down beside him amidst the cacophony of laughter and screams. “Amell,” Jowan picked up his robes, tangled and bunched in on themselves, and draped them awkwardly over his lap, “Hey.”

Jowan touched his shoulder. Amell flinched. He hadn’t meant to flinch. Jowan had warm hands, far softer than silverite, but he flinched anyway. Karl joined them, though unlike Jowan he’d bothered to pull his smalls back on. “Are you alright?" Karl asked. "Do you want me to walk you to the infirmary?”

Amell shook his head. “I’m not hurt.”

“... I think you are,” Karl said gently.

**The Sixth - 9:28 Dragon**

Amell was not okay.

Anders had been missing for over a year. There was talk that he’d made it to Tevinter. There was talk that he’d been killed. There was talk that he’d been dragged down to the dungeons and forgotten. There was talk that he'd been transferred to another Circle. There was too much talk and too little truth. 

Amell missed him.

There was no privacy in the apprentice quarters, and the washrooms were no exception. Wooden washtubs and privies lined one wall, basins and vanities the other. The dividers between them were a poor substitute for walls, but Amell had stopped caring about modesty since the incident in the library two years ago. 

He'd stopped caring about a lot of things. 

It was late, and for the most part everyone was asleep when Amell climbed into a corner tub, and thought of one of the few things he could still manage to care about. A carefree smirk. Freckled skin like sun-kissed alabaster. Honeyed eyes and hair the envy of gold. Impossibly soft, impossibly gentle, impossibly compassionate hands. 

Nothing like the hands that had known him.

A cough interrupted him. Amell was standing with one arm against the wall, head on his forearm, fist around his cock. He turned his head, and didn't recognize the apprentice staring back at him. He was nondescript and unremarkable, but he was here, and Anders wasn’t. Amell smirked, and the stranger smirked back.

"Just brushing my teeth," The stranger explained, like this was the only place he could do it. Amell tilted his head towards the vanity, and the fellow sat, staring at him through the mirror. His eyes were blue, and nothing for Amell to lose himself in. The stranger's hand found a place for itself under his robes, and started moving.

Amell didn't want him, but he didn't not want him either. He started again, slower, pumping his hand while the stranger watched him from the mirror. Amell felt the pull of the Fade, and oil coated his fingers, dripping with warmth and slicking his strokes. Creationism. A healer. Amell felt a slight rush at the revelation, biting down on his bottom lip. 

The stranger took it for an invitation. He stood, flinging off his nightfrock and scrambling into the tub so fast he nearly tripped. The other man grabbed him before Amell had a chance to know his body. Amell didn't want to know his body. Amell didn't want to know anything about him. 

The stranger's mouth tasted like morning, and he broke from Amell to gasp against his cheek, "Is this - Maker - is this okay?"

_No._

"Fuck me," Amell said. 

"You first," The stranger pushed his shoulder, not nearly forcefully enough, and Amell dropped obediently to his knees with a small splash. "Shh," The stranger cautioned, guiding his cock into Amell's mouth. He had a thick, heady taste, like a night spent abed. The stranger thrust into his mouth, burying Amell's nose in dark strands of curly hair. His cock hit the back of Amell's throat, and Amell gagged.

Amell fucked himself on the fingers the other mage had oiled while he pleasured him. It was hard to relax into the stretch. His impatience burned, an inescapable tension in every part of his body at someone else touching it. He'd get used to it. It wouldn't always be like this. Anders wouldn't have let it be like this - 

Amell stood up, and the stranger wasted no time turning him around. A strong arm wrapped around his waist, and the other man sunk into him. Pleasure - it was pleasure - it was what pleasure felt like - flooded his veins, an intense warmth that coiled deep in the pit of his stomach. Amell bit his fist to keep quiet, and the stranger bit his shoulder.

Amell rolled back into the sting, and the stranger wrapped a hand around his throat. He didn't choke nearly as hard as Amell expected. He was too gentle, even rough, and Amell couldn't pretend he was anyone else. None of it matched, despite how close he came. It wasn't an illusion Amell would be able to hold onto when he needed it - when he needed someone else to think of who wasn't Anders because Anders would never - … 

Amell tried to lose himself in the sensations instead. Good sensations. Shallow thrusts, hot breath, sharp teeth, rough nails and firm hands. Flashes of heat, burning hotter and hotter. It unmade him, and all his thoughts, turning him into pieces. Lungs. Heart. Cock. And it was over too fast.

The stranger stuttered apologies into his shoulder blades, his release spilling down the inside of Amell's thigh. Amell tried to finish himself with a hand, thrusting into his fist, wrenching until it hurt, but whatever he'd almost had, he'd lost. The stranger dressed and left. Amell sank into the bath, where he stayed until morning. 

None of it felt good enough.

None of it felt bad enough. 

None of it was Anders.

None of it was anything.

**The Last - 9:29 Dragon**

Amell was going to kill himself.

Everything hurt. The clash of lyrium and mana was one of the most painful things he’d ever felt. It felt like his blood was boiling, like his lungs were on fire. The first time it happened, it gave him a seizure. He blacked out, and forgot it all, and woke up in here. It always happened in here. He needed to get up, but he couldn’t feel his legs yet. 

It didn’t matter. Everyone used the supply closets to fuck. Someone was going to walk in on him like this, and the thought of Jowan finding out got him moving. Amell grabbed the shelf in front of him, and pulled himself to his hands and knees, half-tangled in his robes. He hated robes. They were easy to take off. So easy to get under.

The air was so thick it was almost suffocating. His smalls are ruined. Again. He may as well stop wearing them. All he really needed was a kerchief or a bit of cloth. His smalls didn't work well for drying off. He needed a bath. He wondered if there was time before dinner. His legs were still shaking, and he didn’t think he could walk yet. Amell leaned back against the wall instead.

_Tell anyone and I'll brand you._

Deep breaths.

He hated them. He hated all of them. He’d never know which one it was with those fucking helmets. It could have been any of them. It could have been all of them. It was always the same. "The First Enchanter needs to see you." Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. It always started with a smite, and ended like this. Amell took another deep breath, and the door knob rattled. The hex was on his lips, and he swore this time he’d cast it. Death. He knew the mnemonics, the incantation, the mana. If he could just cast it before the smite -

"Oops," A girl giggled. Amell let the spell go, simultaneously relieved and disappointed. "Looks like this one's taken." 

"I'm leaving," Amell said to her and himself. He took a handful of steps; his legs were boneless, and he collapsed against the doorframe. 

"That good, huh?" The girl laughed. 

Deep breaths.

Amell made it out the door, his eyes on the floor, and kept a hand on the wall to help him walk. A hand grabbed his wrist and landed on the bruises there, and it stung so much he jerked back, half-turning, when a flush of warmth seeped into his skin. It spread everywhere, washing over bruise after ache after bruise, and suddenly it was like it never happened. 

"Hey, are you okay?" Anders. Of course it was Anders. His eyes were full of honeyed warmth, and there was a concerned crease in his brow, and suddenly the hand on Amell’s wrist felt soft and tender and maybe it was his imagination but Anders’ thumb moved in the slightest caress before he let go of him.

"I'm fine," Amell lied, stumbling away from him and turning around. He’d gotten better at lying. One foot in front of the other got him down the hall. He didn’t need his hand on the wall anymore. Not physically, but he kept it there anyway. He didn’t know how far he’d made it before he heard the hurried footfalls, and Anders' hand landed on his shoulder.

"Hey, wait," Anders kept his hand there, but he didn't try to turn him. His voice was low and concerned and Amell reined in the inane want to throw himself into Anders’ arms and cry until he collapsed. "Are you-do you-can I help?" 

Amell shook his head. He didn’t trust words at this point. Anders gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and he couldn’t help leaning back against it. 

"Who was it?" Anders asked.

"Helmets," Amell managed, and his voice cracked, and he felt a fool for it. Anders’ hand squeezed again, but this time it was firm. 

"Son of a bitch," Anders snarled, like he knew him. Like he even had any reason to care. "Look you-shouldn't be walking alone. Let me walk you back to your dorms. Do you not have anyone to pair with you? I don't know if our schedules line up but-"

"No," Amell interrupted him. That was the last thing he needed. He was the First Enchanter’s apprentice. He didn’t have a partner. His schedule was unique. If Anders started babysitting him now, it wouldn't take Jowan long to figure out why, and Amell couldn’t stand the thought of him knowing. "He'll know I told someone. Whoever he is. I'm not Harrowed. He-..."

"He won't brand you," Anders said quickly; his hand rubbed Amell’s shoulder, and Amell sucked in a sharp breath to keep from crying for it. "They just say that. They all say that. Let me walk you back to your dorms. I know a lot of people. I'll find someone with your schedule."

"No," Amell said again, and for a long while Anders did nothing but rub his back. Amell loved his hands. Creationism flowed between his fingers, and Amell could feel it breathing across his skin even with nothing physical left to heal. 

"... next Tuesday," Anders said. "Come to the stockrooms, during dinner."

"... why?" Amell asked, but his mind was already inventing reasons. Fantastical, impossible reasons that only ever happened in the Fade.

"There'll be a change in the guard rotation." Anders explained, squeezing his shoulder, "Come to the stockrooms, and I'll take you with me."

"... Out of the Circle?" Amell could barely form the words, and he heard his voice crack again.

"Out of the Circle," Anders agreed. A sob tangled up in Amell’s chest, and the force of it shook his shoulders. Anders must have felt it. Damn it all. Amell was ready to turn and fling himself into Anders’ arms when a templar patrol stepped into the hall. He stumbled hastily away from Anders, and made it back to his dorms. There wasn’t any time for a bath before dinner. 

He was Harrowed before then. It happened in the middle of the night, and he’d never panicked harder in his entire life than when the templars gagged him and dragged him out of his bunk. Not again. Not more than one templar. There were three of them, and the thought of them dragging him into that closet and passing him around like a hit of lyrium made him hyperventilate. Or worse, the templar knew Amell had told someone, and they were going to Tranquilize him. He’d rather die. 

"Stop struggling," One of them ordered, and the hands that pinned his wrists behind his back were so familiar he couldn’t breathe.

Amell ended up fainting.

The Harrowing itself was easy.

It happened again immediately afterwards.

_Don't think this changes anything._

Tuesday came. 

Amell didn’t have anything to bring with him. He just wanted out. He left his last class for the evening and headed for the stockrooms when Jowan cut him off. Amell didn’t have time for him. He didn’t. He couldn’t do it anymore, not even for Jowan. He had to get out of here. If he went in that closet one more time he’d kill himself and everyone around him. Amell tried to brush him off, but Jowan grabbed a fistful of his robes, and his terrified whimper broke him.

“Amell, you have to help me! They’re going to make me Tranquil!” 

Anders could escape without him, but Jowan couldn’t. 

From Kinloch they fled.

**Author's Note:**

> **Fanart**   
>  [Amell - Ratwhisperer2](https://accursed-ones.tumblr.com/post/637415567365750784/ratwhisperer2-a-tiny-amell-with-his-unfortunate)


End file.
